


Opening Moves

by zelda_zee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-04
Updated: 2008-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Thanks to</b>: <span class="ljuser ljuser-name_themoononastick"><a href="http://themoononastick.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://themoononastick.livejournal.com/"><b>themoononastick</b></a></span> for betaing.<br/></p>
    </blockquote>





	Opening Moves

**Author's Note:**

> **Thanks to** : [](http://themoononastick.livejournal.com/profile)[**themoononastick**](http://themoononastick.livejournal.com/) for betaing.  
> 

Lupin dreamed of the wolf more and more often. It chased him endlessly over the moors beneath the full moon, sharp teeth nipping at his heels, its breath hot as a furnace at his back. The dreams left him shaken and pale, with dark circles under his eyes and hands that trembled as he stirred sugar into his tea at breakfast. Those were the days when he’d discover midway through the afternoon that his shirt was on inside out or his socks didn’t match, when he’d assign an in-class essay just so he wouldn’t have to hear himself speak, when he’d go to his rooms after class and break out the whiskey, drink himself straight through supper and into a heavy, drunken slumber.

He never thought anyone noticed. He never tended to believe he attracted any attention whatsoever unless given evidence to the contrary, so it came as a surprise one morning to lift bleary eyes and see Snape’s black, piercing gaze focused on his trembling hand as he dumped sugar into his teacup.

He flushed uncomfortably and tried without success to will his hand to stop shaking. Finally he just put both hands in his lap and stared at his plate until he felt the weight of Snape’s attention shift away from him. When he looked down the table again Snape was staring impassively out over the hall, a scowl on his face. He looked angry, but then Snape often looked angry and there was never any point trying to fathom at what. The man wore his anger the way he wore his high-buttoned black robes, seamless and ever-swirling around him.

*

Snape appeared, scowling and taciturn, bringing the wolfsbane to Lupin’s rooms at the precise hour, just as the evening faded from dusk to dark on the night of the full moon.

“You have been missing suppers,” Snape observed in a voice that intimated that he really couldn’t care less.

Lupin shrugged. “I’ve had essays to mark.” He drank the potion, trying to get it down in one go, but as usual, not making it. He waited, shivering, trying to breathe through the nausea that the noxious brew always caused.

“Four nights in the past week? You must be working your students to death.”

“Don’t know why you’d care. I believe you yourself make a practice of it.” Lupin gulped the last of the potion. He closed his eyes, curling forward, feeling sweat break out on his upper lip. “Gods, that’s bloody awful,” he groaned. He didn’t even notice Snape’s hand on his elbow, steadying him.

“I have attempted mint extract, oil of clove and liquorice root to improve the flavour,” Snape said when Lupin had recovered. “None of them made the least bit of difference.”

“Oh,” said Lupin, blinking at Snape in surprise. “Thank you, Severus. For making an effort, I mean.” Lupin didn’t know what to think. It was most unlike Snape to fuss over something as inconsequential as flavoring for an otherwise perfectly functional potion.

Snape was looking at him with an expression Lupin couldn’t place. Why was the man so damnably hard to read?

“Do not flatter yourself,” said Snape, “It was –”

“Severus,” Lupin interrupted as the sudden surge of heat in his body presaged the approaching transformation. “I’m sorry to be rude, but you probably should leave now.”

Snape winced and looked at Lupin for a moment longer as if he was on the verge of speech, his face drawn and pale. Then he shook his head, picked up the empty goblet and left.

*

Lupin stumbled into his rooms at the end of an interminable day of classes after two nights in a row of dousing himself with enough whiskey to drive the wolf from his dreams to he find a little bottle of his desk. _Dreamless Sleep_ said the label, in Snape’s precise lettering, with instructions for its use on a folded piece of parchment sitting beneath it.

Lupin picked up the bottle and unstoppered it, sniffing. Why would Snape give him such a thing? How would he even know about Lupin’s nightmares? He remembered the rumor that Snape was a great legilimens and for a moment he worried that Snape had somehow pried into his thoughts, before dismissing that as a baseless fear. He would have felt it, if Snape had tried such a thing, and anyway, he wouldn’t, not without permission. Lupin felt almost certain of that.

He puzzled over it for the next few days. Snape was not given to acts of either generosity or charity. Therefore, there must be something in it for him, but Lupin couldn’t fathom what that something could be.

He wasn’t alone with Snape until the evening of the fourth day after the mysterious appearance of the potion, when they passed each other in a deserted stretch of corridor.

“Snape,” he said, as the man passed him with an imposing sweep of black cloth and his usual minimal excuse for a greeting. “Severus!” he called, when Snape didn’t pause. Lupin backtracked to where Snape was standing, looking at him as if this interruption in his forward progress was extremely inconvenient. “I want to thank you for the _Dreamless Sleep_. I – you – I don’t –” He was stammering, the result of that lowering glare that Snape had turned on him. He took a breath. “I don’t know how you guessed that I was – er – that it would be useful, but thank you.”

“It is effective?” Snape asked, his expression unmoving.

“Yes,” affirmed Lupin. “Quite.”

Snape nodded once. “I do not guess,” he said. “Ever. The vent for my dungeon is on the same air shaft as your room. You kept me up one too many nights with your howling.”

Lupin felt his face heat. Snape had heard him at night when he’d cried out in his dreams. How utterly humiliating. And what else had he heard? Lupin’s mind raced, trying to remember if he’d ever done anything in his bedroom that would have made any incriminating noises. Alas, nothing that he could think of, unless – but he was usually fairly quiet when he – but, there were times – and oh gods, what if Snape had heard _that_?

Snape was just standing there, watching with detached interest as the colour on Lupin’s face deepened.

“Oh,” Lupin finally managed. “I see. I apologize if I disturbed your slumber, Severus. It was, ah, quite unintentional.”

“No matter. You will let me know when you are in need of more.”

Lupin thought Snape would go then, turn in a swirl of black robes and stalk down the corridor, but he didn’t. He hovered, looking as though he _wanted_ nothing more than to be gone, but somehow couldn’t quite make himself take that first step, and that was when Lupin noticed something for the first time and it astonished him so greatly that he simply stood there blinking, not quite able to take it in. Snape’s eyes, traveling hungrily over his face, resting on his lips, the avid sharpness to his features, the flush in his cheeks, the flare of his nostrils… Lupin felt insane to even think such a thing, but could it be _desire_ that he saw on Snape’s face? Desire for _him_?

“Would you –” he started, intending to take the brazen step of inviting Snape to his rooms for a drink.

“Good night, Lupin,” Snape said at the same instant, and then there was that predictable swirl of robes as Snape hurried away, moving as if he had a wolf at his heels.

*

Lupin pulled the curtain closed on the fading light, not that it would make the slightest difference to his fate for the evening. He sighed, swaying slightly on his feet and leaned forward into the thick velvet draperies, feeling the coolness of the glass beneath his forehead through the heavy fabric. He was very tired. Sometimes the moon’s fullness hit him harder than others and he had a feeling this would be one of those times. He felt worn down and raw and the anticipation of the night to come was almost more than he could bear.

He thought with a sudden fierce sadness of Sirius and James and even Peter, back when they were in school, before everything went so horribly wrong. He remembered how they would transform with him and spend the nights of the full moon together, running through the forest, wild and savage. For those few short years he had not been alone.

Now he was accustomed to being alone. He had been alone for most of his adult life, what with one thing or another. Still, sometimes the loneliness crept up on him like it had tonight, overwhelming him, leaving him feeling cold and gray.

The knock at his door was a reprieve from his melancholy thoughts. It would be Snape, of course, ill-tempered and prickly and awkward, as always. The thought made Lupin smile.

“Come,” he called.

Snape entered, bearing the steaming brew before him in its usual goblet. “Good evening, Severus,” Lupin said, though there was certainly nothing good about it as far as he was concerned.

“Lupin,” Snape said. He held the wolfsbane out to him and Lupin took it. Snape had a strange expression on his face. On anyone else, Lupin might have called it a smile, but on Snape, no. Still, there was an odd… twinkle in his eyes and his lips were twitching as if they were trying to evade a lifetime’s discipline and curve upward. Lupin tilted his head in polite confusion. “What – is there something –?”

“Drink your potion,” said Snape, gesturing impatiently toward the goblet. Lupin did, a little more carefully than usual it is true, simply because Snape was behaving oddly and Lupin wasn’t certain if perhaps the reason for it was that the man had finally decided tonight was the night to add poison to the wolfsbane and be rid of Hogwarts’ pesky werewolf forever.

A single sip was enough to tell Lupin that something was very wrong. At first he couldn’t identify the problem, and then it dawned on him – the wolfsbane had lost its repugnant taste. There was no familiar upswelling of nausea, no shivering and weakness, only the feeling of something warm and liquid sliding down his throat and a rich, slightly sweet flavour on his tongue.

“What did you do to it?” Lupin asked, hoping that the answer wasn’t something deadly.

“It was quite simple, really,” Snape said. He rubbed his hands together, then as if noticing the gesture, laced his fingers tightly. “I don’t know why I hadn’t thought to try it before. Chocolate.”

“Chocolate?” Lupin took another cautious swallow. Yes, he could definitely taste chocolate now, and beneath it the other, less pleasant, flavours of the potion, still present but quelled to a dull and unimpressive shadow of their former potency. “It won’t lessen the efficacy? Are you sure?”

“Of course I am sure!” Snape snapped. “Do you think I would give it to you if I weren’t certain?”

“No, no of course not. I know you wouldn’t,” Lupin assured him. “I’m just a bit – shocked.” He sipped again. “It’s actually not bad at all.”

“Yes. Well. Best to drink it down quickly, nonetheless.” Snape glanced toward the window as if to check for the moon, but the curtain was pulled across it. Lupin tilted his head back, draining the goblet as instructed. No nausea or stomach cramps or sweating and the chocolate made the taste – not unpleasant. It was a completely unexpected bit of good fortune, and after how low he had just been feeling… Well, despite the dismal prospect of the night to come, he felt significantly cheered.

“The chocolate acts as a mood enhancer and a calming agent as well, so you may feel some slight lessening of the anxiety normally attendant on the transformation,” Snape was saying.

“Yes,” Lupin smiled at him. “I believe I do feel that.” He shook his head, at a loss for words. “I don’t know how to thank you, Severus.” He turned away, feeling the sudden sting of tears in his eyes and not wanting Snape to see. It was so rare, in recent years, that anyone had shown him this sort of kindness, and to have it come from Snape of all people, and to relate directly to his condition, which he knew that Snape found abhorrent and disgusting – it was beyond comprehension really, but he didn’t have time to puzzle it out, for he could feel the first intimations of the change whispering over his nerves.

“I will leave you to it then,” said Snape quietly. “I shall see myself out.”

Lupin nodded but said nothing, too full of emotion to trust any words that might emerge at that moment. Tomorrow, he thought, he would be sure to thank Snape again.

*

On the next full moon he drank the potion down as soon as Snape handed it to him, for he desperately needed the calming effect of the chocolate, considering what his subsequent words would be. He took a deep breath, met Snape’s dark, enigmatic gaze and invited him to return the next night for a glass of the 20-year old single malt Scotch his uncle had sent him for Christmas.

Snape had looked so completely at a loss that it made Lupin wonder when the last time was that the man had received a social invitation, for he seemed to have no idea what the proper response should be. And when he finally murmured an affirmative, at least a full sixty seconds after Lupin’s question, Lupin wasn’t certain which of them was more surprised. Snape certainly looked as though he had had no intention of accepting and yet when he opened his mouth to answer that is exactly what he did. Lupin’s trepidation transferred immediately from being focused on the phrasing of the invitation to what on earth he and Snape might talk about over the course of a drink the next night. He wasn’t given long to worry over it however, as he felt that all-too-familiar heat sliding over his bones which meant his time in his current form was limited and that unless Snape left in the next few moments he’d have to witness something that Lupin was sure he would prefer not to.

*

Thank the gods Snape played chess, Lupin thought, as he leaned back in his armchair and watched Snape contemplate the board. Happily, the game precluded – discouraged even – the necessity of small talk, something he could manage awkwardly at best and Snape not at all. Sitting together in near silence was perfectly acceptable if it was done over a chessboard.

Chess had the added advantage of being an absorbing game and with Snape concentrating on the board, Lupin was free to observe his opponent at length. Snape’s hair hung down in his face, lank and shiny, an unrelieved black, so different from Lupin's own shaggy, grey-tinged locks. Lupin had always longed to touch it, to feel the smooth, sleek texture of it beneath his fingertips, not that he'd ever had the chance, or imagined that he would in the future. He wondered idly if Snape ever tied it back when he worked. He had never seen Snape with a ponytail – the thought in fact, was enough to make him want to giggle – but surely it must get in the way.

Snape’s face – well, Lupin had always found Snape attractive for some strange reason, but he was never so blinded as to believe Snape to be handsome, not by any objective standards. Still, it was a strong face, and a dramatic one. Difficult to look away from. Lupin thought that under different circumstances, in a different lifetime, Snape’s face could have been something quite breathtaking, if it was lively and animated and full of emotion.

Snape swore softly, lifting his hand away from his rook. “You have boxed me into a corner, Lupin.” He raised his head and met Lupin’s eyes and Lupin was amused to see the surprise in Snape’s. “You are rather good at this game, aren’t you?”

“I had an excellent teacher,” Lupin said, swirling the Scotch in his glass.

“And who might that have been?”

“Sirius taught me to play.”

Snape’s eyebrows shot up. “Black? I find it hardly credible that a person so deficient in intellect could excel at chess.”

“You know, Severus, you tend to underestimate those you dislike.” Lupin lifted a brow. “Which means you tend to underestimate everyone.”

“I do not.” Lupin watched as Snape mentally paged through those in his acquaintance, searching for possible exceptions. “I do not underestimate Albus,” he said finally.

“Very well,” Lupin conceded. “ _Almost_ everyone.”

“You give people too much credit, Lupin. You’ve always been too soft.”

Lupin grimaced. “You prove my point, Severus.”

“I do not think I underestimate you,” Snape said, staring fixedly at the chessboard as two spots of colour bloomed on his pale cheeks.

Lupin blinked at him, nonplussed. Had Snape just admitted to _liking_ him? “Why, Severus, I –”

“Aha!” Snape exclaimed, picking up his remaining knight. “I knew I was missing something. Check.”

Lupin leaned forward, frowning at the board. “Dammit, what did you – oh. Damn. Here,” he held out his glass to Snape, his mind already calculating backward and forward through his possible next moves. “Fetch me another, would you Severus?” he muttered distractedly.

*

They polished off half the bottle that night, which meant, or so Lupin claimed, that Snape had to return a week later to finish the job. And also, Snape pointed out as they settled in for a rematch, it was essential that he regain his honor after having been bested at chess by a mere Gryffindor.

“Why does it bother you so that a Gryffindor beat you at chess?” Lupin asked. It seemed an odd thing to dwell on, the old house rivalries. He’d have thought it more likely that Snape would take issue with having been beaten by a werewolf.

“Slytherins are renowned for their skill at games of strategy. Chess is played more or less constantly in the Slytherin common room, you know. I would have assumed it to be a game unsuited to a Gryffindor temperament.”

Lupin regarded Snape over the rim of his glass. “Is that how you perceive me? As someone with a ‘Gryffindor temperament’?’

Lupin held his eyes until Snape looked down at the table and moved his first pawn. “Not – not entirely,” he said, in the voice of a man admitting to something only with reluctance. “I have always thought,” _always thought_ , Lupin mused – so he’d thought about this before, “that you possess a number of Ravenclaw traits. You seem to pursue knowledge for its own sake more than your – more than the norm for a Gryffindor.” Snape took a sip of Scotch and hesitated before continuing. “And actually, I have at times thought you had a bit of Slytherin as well.”

Lupin smiled. Interesting.

“It’s your move,” said Snape.

Lupin nudged a pawn out of formation.

“Of course the houses are an artificial construct,” said Lupin. “We’re all a mix, after all. Look at what nearly happened with Harry.” Snape looked at him in confusion. “Didn’t you know? The Hat almost sorted Harry into Slytherin. Wouldn’t that have turned things topsy-turvy?”

“Potter? In Slytherin? How utterly bizarre,” Snape murmured.

Lupin shrugged. “If you knew Harry better, you may not think so. But back to my point, at this stage in life, I try not to let the house system influence me in making up my mind about people, though I have found that more difficult than one might imagine.”

“Are you saying that you do not think of me as a Slytherin?” Snape wore a little frown, for once not of disapproval, more as if he were trying to comprehend Lupin’s train of thought.

“Well, Severus, you are a very Slytherin Slytherin, so it’s impossible not to think of you as such.” Snape inclined his head, clearly interpreting that as a compliment. “But you have other traits as well. As a matter of fact, I see a lot of Gryffindor in you.” Snape shot him an affronted look and flicked a pawn forward with his finger.

“I think it best if I decline to respond to that comment,” he said. “You are clearly trying to provoke me.”

Lupin smiled, because despite his words, Snape didn’t look angry.

“Do you remember back at school, Severus? Despite house rivalries, we were almost friends sometimes, you and I.” It was true. In the early days they had been friendly. They had shared a table in the library, spending many hours seated across from each other, occasionally whispering over the stack of books heaped between them. Despite the fact that Lupin spent the rest of his time with James and Peter and Sirius, when he was in the library he was actually there in order to work, unlike his rowdy friends. Severus made a much better study companion. Of course all that had changed...

“I remember,” Severus said, meeting Lupin’s eyes. “I remember a great many things about our school days, Lupin. I think it best if we avoid that particular subject, don’t you?”

It was true that any talk of the past was fraught with danger, Lupin conceded as he studied the chessboard, more as a way of distracting himself than because there was much of anything to study, two moves into the game.

“Fine. Stick to the here and now, shall we? Safer all ‘round, I’m sure.” He glanced up at Snape. “But Severus, when will I be able to convince you to call me Remus?”

“It’s your move.” Snape leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. “Lupin.”

*

The next week Snape brought a bottle of Kentucky whiskey that he claimed had been mouldering in his cupboard for the past year. It took them three weeks to polish that off, skipping the week of the full moon at Lupin's request, since it usually left him exhausted and out of sorts. But other than that, Snape was at his door each week on the appointed night, bearing the bottle of whiskey, and when that was gone, one of the same Scotch as what they’d started out with. Lupin suspected he’d bought it for the occasion, but he didn’t mention that.

In a surprisingly short time, the weekly chess games had become a part of his routine and Lupin seemed to have, most unpredictably, renewed the odd and tenuous friendship with Severus Snape that had been so abruptly snuffed out by Sirius’ prank all those many years ago. He wanted to ask Snape why he kept coming back, why Lupin’s _condition_ no longer inspired automatic animosity, why the memory of what had nearly happened back when they were boys in the tunnel to the Shrieking Shack had ceased to color their every adult interaction, but in truth, he was afraid to push. He found himself looking forward to the chess games and the intellectual sparring that accompanied them, and surprisingly, enjoying Snape’s company too much to risk it.

*

When it happened it was so sudden, so unexpected that Lupin didn’t even have a chance to feel nervous or awkward. Snape had been explaining the difficulty he was having with a particularly complicated potion innovation he’d been attempting, and Lupin had been doing his best to keep up, because even though he’d been good at potions in school he’d never been as good as Snape, and in the years since the man had outstripped him by far. But it wouldn’t do to appear uninformed, so he was concentrating on Snape’s words and trying to formulate something useful to contribute to the conversation. He’d got up to refill their drinks, lost in thought and not watching where he was going and he’d knocked against the chess table and stumbled and Snape was on his feet, his hand on Lupin’s waist to steady him. Lupin looked up at him with a start and he couldn’t help it, he swayed just a little into his touch and then Snape was pulling him near, his hand sliding into Lupin’s hair and his peat-scented breath ghosting over Lupin’s face.

Lupin could hardly process what was happening, just that his heart was hammering against his ribs as if it was about to attempt to break out of his chest and that it was absolutely impossible for him to breathe and that his body was reacting in a way that he sincerely hoped Snape wouldn’t find alarming or repulsive because there wasn’t a damned thing Lupin could do about it. He was looking up into Snape’s face, suddenly so much closer than he’d ever seen it before, and he knew his eyes must be about as wide open as it was possible for them to be. Snape’s were half-closed and very dark and Lupin could see that he was struggling between twin but opposing urges – whether to close the space between them or create more of it. Lupin didn’t think on it, he just reacted, making the decision for him by pulling Snape down to him and crushing their mouths together.

Snape made a surprised sound and then he made an aroused one, a sound that made the hair on the back of Lupin’s neck stand on end and his blood course in a hot surge down to his stiffening prick. This was insane, he knew, and any second Snape would shove him away and hex him into next week, but he couldn’t possibly stop. With Snape’s mouth on his, wide and wet and tasting of Scotch and some unidentifiable spice beneath that – something that reminded Lupin of rare and exotic potions ingredients, though why Snape would taste of such a thing he couldn’t say – he couldn’t think of anything other than a strange feeling of giddiness that made him want to laugh out loud at the same time that his body was filling with a fierce, possibly even ferocious desire.

Snape suddenly stepped back and Lupin reached for him in a panic, supposing that Snape had come to his senses and realized who (and what) he was kissing, but no, he was only steering Lupin back towards the sofa and pushing him down onto it and coming down on top of him, heavy and hot and who would have thought that Snape would put out so much heat, with his icy demeanor and his looks that could freeze fire. But _oh_ , he was hot and _hard_ , there against Lupin’s hip, and _moving_ , grinding down onto him, and his hands, those, clever, careful, long-fingered hands were delving into Lupin’s robes and his voice, that deep, melodious, ridiculously sexy voice was murmuring something (ancient French, Lupin thought) into Lupin’s neck and Lupin’s clothes were parting, melting away at the touch of Snape’s wand, light and ticklish, tracing a line up the median of his torso. And then it was Snape’s hand on his bare skin and Lupin groaned at the feel of it, amazed at how much he wanted this now that it was on offer. It had been a long time for him, a very long time, and as Snape’s hand wrapped around his cock he thought frantically that he’d only be able to last an embarrassingly short time. If he’d guessed that this might come to pass he might have been able to spell himself beforehand into a little more self-control, but he hadn’t, he couldn’t have guessed in a million years that this evening or any evening would include Snape humping and writhing on top of him as he sucked at Lupin’s collarbone, his hand tight around Lupin’s cock, stroking him slow and sure.

Lupin was doing little beside clutching at Snape and gasping and squirming and rocking his hips into Snape’s touch. His head was tucked into Snape’s shoulder because he couldn’t get enough air to kiss him and he couldn’t bear to look at him and he smelled so good that inhaling his scent – the organic and medicinal smell of his potions mixed with sweat and alcohol, but most of all the pungent, musky odor of arousal- made Lupin want to growl and bite, dizzy with desire. Lupin cried out and flung his legs open like a tavern whore when Snape’s hand squeezed his balls, rolling and fondling them and he realized then with a flash of utter clarity what he wanted. Merlin and all the elders, he wanted it so badly that it made him shudder from head to toe, but it was too late for that now because he was less than a minute from spending at most and he wouldn’t possibly be able to – not this time, but please, as Snape’s finger ventured back to play over his opening, inducing another cry (far too loud, Lupin thought) and another shudder, please let there be a next time.

Lupin drew in a sobbing breath and gasped, “I can’t – oh, I can’t – please, n-now - _oh_!” as Snape’s hand was around his cock again, jerking him hard and fast, his breath loud and ragged in Lupin’s ear, his cock still hidden beneath his damnably thick robes but undeniably hard and, _oh yes_ , thick and long, grinding into his hipbone. “S-Sev – Sev –” Lupin gasped, arching up against the pressure of Snape’s body, the heavy thigh weighing his legs down. He heard Snape groan, long and low as he clasped Lupin even tighter to him and that pushed him over into a sparkling, cascading pleasure such as he hadn’t known in years. He tried to cry out, but his throat wouldn’t work and he was caught, frozen and voiceless and trembling, as it slammed into him, his only movement the sweetly aching convulsions of his cock in Snape’s hand as he emptied himself over his fingers in a hot and copious flood of ecstasy that he hoped and feared would never end.

When it inevitably did, Lupin drew a strangled, desperate breath before collapsing in a stunned daze, staring mindlessly at the ceiling above him. He lay there, crumpled on the sofa, weak as a kitten and shivering and sweaty and covered in his own spunk, with Snape laying heavily atop him, the wet spot at the front of his robes clammy against Lupin’s hip, and he laughed. Not a demure giggle or a quiet chuckle. No, he threw back his head and guffawed. Out loud and quite inappropriately and doubtlessly to Snape’s complete confusion. He didn’t care. He laughed.

Snape pushed up onto one hand and looked down at him, frowning. Lupin thought he was trying to look imposing, but the effect was somewhat diminished by the flush on his face and the redness of his lips and the fact that he hadn’t got his breath back and was still panting a bit.

“What, pray tell, do you find so bloody amusing?” Snape growled.

“It’s us, Severus,” Lupin gasped, tears in his eyes. “Surely we are the two most ridiculous people in all of creation.” He giggled, then hiccupped, then dissolved into laughter again.

“Speak for yourself, Lupin,” Snape said, pulling away, but Lupin reached up and grasped his arm, suddenly cognizant of the nearly indistinguishable quaver in Snape’s voice and the slight tightening around his mouth.

“No, Severus, please, it’s not like that.” Snape paused and looked at him out of those great, black eyes and Lupin wondered at Snape even giving him a chance to explain himself, which didn’t seem very Snape-like at all. It made him suspect that Snape was perhaps a little _lenient_ where he was concerned, which made a warm feeling glow somewhere around his middle.

“I just – to be honest, Severus, I haven’t felt this good in longer than I can remember. And to think that all this time you had the power to make me feel like that and – and we didn’t because of – of –” Lupin’s smile faded, and the humour drained from his voice. He dropped his eyes from Snape’s gaze and stared at the mess on his stomach and chest. “Well, it’s not very funny really, is it?”

“It is –” Snape paused until Lupin looked at him again, “perhaps _slightly_ amusing, if one has a healthy appreciation for irony. Though I dare say Lupin, your overreaction is doubtless a consequence of a sudden lack of blood flow to your brain, and therefore I am inclined to excuse you for it.”

“Very magnanimous of you Severus,” Lupin murmured, finding himself unable to look away from those dark eyes, regarding him very intently and with some unaccustomed _something_ gleaming in their inky depths.

Lupin's breath hitched when Snape drew his fingertips through the cooling pool on his abdomen and slid them lower, stroking and teasing and caressing so deftly that he soon felt his body reawakening into a sated yet growing state of arousal that he had no doubt would soon become something far different, something deep and demanding and ravenous.

“I can be magnanimous, Lupin,” Snape said, and was it Lupin’s (no doubt overheated) imagination or had Snape’s voice taken on an uncharacteristic softness? “When I so choose.”

Lupin shivered because Snape’s voice was like a tactile thing, sliding over his skin and into his body and oh, he longed to abandon himself to the melting pleasure that was filling him and urging him now to reciprocate, to feel Snape’s flesh burning under his hands with want of him, but first – he took a deep breath – first, there was this one little thing, a small thing, but an important one.

“You just came in your robes from rubbing against me Severus, and are likely to do so again if you don’t manage to rid yourself of these inconvenient garments, because damn, I can’t recall the spell to do it myself – which should tell you just how bloody long it’s been since I – well, what I meant to say is that I think you’d better learn to call me by my given name if we’re going to –” He broke off there, contenting himself with gesturing between the two of them rather than attempting to describe just what it was they were doing, for he wasn’t quite certain how to put it into words.

“Very well,” Snape said, looking straight at him as his fingers found a particularly sensitive place and played over it again and again. He licked his lips and leaned in close and whispered, “ _Remus_.”

Lupin gasped and wriggled and grinned and Snape’s lips curved upwards just the slightest, tiniest bit. It was the barest hint of merriment, but the most, Lupin was fairly certain, that he had ever seen on Snape’s face.

My doing, he thought with happy astonishment as he heard Snape murmuring that excellent spell in French again. I made Severus Snape smile.

  



End file.
